I really, really wanted to call this post “The Retard.” I know that’s a bad word. I do. But it makes me laugh every time I say it, so I guess I’m just a bad person. I’m sorry.

Also, this guy was really a retard, ok?????

He messaged me on OK Cupid and hit me right in a soft spot with a perfect message. Gentlemen, here is the key to my heart:

“Is your dog named after William F. Buckley? If so, that’s awesome.”

Ok. First he mentioned my dog, which is a no-brainer of a perfect way to get in my pants/heart. Then he mentioned my dog’s namesake and totally realized how hilarious it is that my dog is named after the father of conservatism. Two major points earned right off the bat.

We exchanged several more clever and intelligent messages, and set a date. He wasn’t super attractive, but he was fine, and I try to be open minded. After all, some of my great loves were people I would have ignored on OK Cupid.

We met at a bar in DuPont Circle. I hate DuPont Circle, but I made a (very generous) exception because he said the bar had good cocktails.

When I got there, he was the only guy sitting at the counter. His face was really, really retarded looking. I sat down next to him, and he said hi, and some sort of nicety. And he talked with a terrible odd lisp thing. Like, well, a retard. Ugh. Bad start. Ok, bad start is an understatement. More like horrifying dealbreaker.

But I was a good sport and ordered a drink. I asked for a very cold Grey Goose martini, and the bartender served me one with pieces of ice floating in it. Ugh. Gross. Not ok. I couldn’t even enjoy the hard hitting cocktail I had been looking forward to, and now needed even more than I had expected. He was drinking some incredibly girly drink with Pimm’s in it.

The guy, to his credit, was very smart. He owned his own business which sounded pretty cool. We could talk about intellectual things. I wasn’t going to date him, but I was glad to at least have an interesting evening.

And then he put his hand on my knee.

Whattttttt??!!! Not. Ok. Ever. And especially if you’re pretty autistic and don’t have the capacity to judge whether the date is even going well. I was immediately beyond uncomfortable and totally froze up. He didn’t notice.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette. When I came back inside, he had a question for me.

“If you smoke, you must have a lighter, right?”

I said yes. He told me that he had a fireplace and was trying to use up the rest of his firewood, but had used the last of his matches the day before. Did I want to go to his place a block away and light a fire?

Very smooth.

Against my credit, I accepted. It was only 8 pm and I didn’t feel like going home yet. We got up and started to walk to his house. And then I noticed something. Something horrible.

We walked/limped/dragged our way to his apartment, and he lit a fire. Then he told me to check out his booze selection while he went to the bathroom. The liquor was stored in a corner, where two counters met at a 90 degree angle. I stood in the nook, checking out the booze, and then I felt something behind me. He had cornered me in the nook and put one hand on either side of me, effectively trapping me.

I can’t even express how awful and horrifying that is. Forget that I’m particularly sensitive to being touched by strangers, no man should EVER corner a woman like that when she is in his home. Huge, huge danger alert. It was legitimately terrifying.

He made me a (admittedly delicious) Manhattan and I let him sit down first in front of the fire. There were two couches, and I sat in the farthest corner of the other couch from him. No confusion possible there.

As I’m writing this, I’m thinking about how unbelievably stupid it was of me to go to his apartment in the first place and send a poor autistic kid totally mixed signals.

Anyway. Then I just decided to be a total contrarian bitch, to ensure that he was as uninterested in me as I was in him. I argued the opposite of every point he made. He told me that he went to Princeton, Yale, and Oxford, and I told him how much I hated the Ivy League establishment and thought that they were a much lesser education than their reputation (which is totally true, and the proper response to anyone who flaunts their prestigious college degree). When he told me that his dad made him read literature instead of the fantasy books he wanted to read when he was growing up, I basically said his dad was a dick who stifled his child’s imagination (which I also kind of believe). I was as contrarian and unpleasant as possible, and, when I finished my drink and stood up to leave, I’m pretty sure he was as relieved as I was.

God, I was totally mean to the retarded kid. I’m an asshole. Oh, well. In case it wasn’t obvious, he never tried to contact me again.